Chapter 18 Embracing Sharp Turns

It’s nearing the end of a vibrant October, and another birthday has rolled around, as they tend to do, for two very special boys in my life.

Tate and Levi are six now, and they're twins, though they’re not the least bit identical. In fact, aside from being born on the same day, they don’t share much else in common, except of course an obvious resemblance to each other and a bent toward living life in a large, unfettered way. I guess they also share vivid imaginations; so vivid in fact that I’m actually jealous, if you can believe it.

Of interest on this very special day, was a gift that arrived for Tate, and it may yet qualify as a top ten contender for the best birthday present of all time: a Harley Davidson bicycle.

It’s just as you might expect -- low to the ground, with an oversized back tire and a tiny front one attached to extra long chrome down tubes. It has those familiar, widely set handlebars and a faux leather banana seat that he sits in, casually, like a certain kind of king, cruising around the cul-de-sac.

I’ve been impressed to no end with the quality of the bike, having put together and thrown away many of the lesser sort. It’s just so solid and well made, and quite frankly, I’m comforted by the fact that I now have some type of Harley in my garage.

Since receiving it less than a week ago, Tate has fallen at least a dozen times. It’s quite different from his other bike; the turns are sharp and awkward, mostly because of that small front wheel. It’s going to take some getting used to, not to mention the fact that it’s really too big for him; but, apparently, he’s not too worried about it.

One of Tate’s early accidents, however, involved something common to all bikes and perhaps other six year old riders, when his shoelaces got all tangled up in the pedal. I was watching him from the sidewalk and he went down hard and fast -- so suddenly, in fact, that he had no chance to even put out his hands. He hit his forehead square on the concrete and I heard it and felt it all at once. I ran to pick him up, but I didn’t realize his sneaker was all twisted in the chain, so I was literally lifting up the bike with him, just to comfort him a little. Finally, I caught on, took off his shoe and held him tight while he cried it out with a large knot already forming on his forehead.

Tate has long floppy blonde hair that falls as haphazard bangs, and so the evidence from this incident was immediately covered up as he dried his tears. And then, a deep breath later, he got back on his new bike, defiantly perfecting his practice and embracing sharp turns. I admired his courage and I suppose his persistence, as I returned to the sidewalk.

A curious thing happened then, as he picked up speed, ever faster against imaginary opponents. Racing in concentric circles around this illusionary track, his angelic hair was whipped back, exposing his latest wound as he precariously leaned into more danger, as if to say, this ride outweighs my fear of it.

He’s fallen since that time, adding more road rash and bruises to various parts of his body, but every day, he’s more comfortable and more natural.

Yesterday, he told me that now, he can ride that big ol’ bike with no hands.

And all of this, as you’ve probably come to expect, causes me to wrestle imaginary notions, especially about church, and so, I carry with me the snapshot of this bike, the falling down, the crying out and the getting back on, because, you see, it just so happens that I’ve fallen many times, and I assume you have too. Brokenness is something we all share, across mutual spectrums, and combined, we offer up quite a challenge to the perceived margins and limitations of grace.

Maybe we’ve fallen repeatedly over the same thing, or we've been victimized or simply been dealt a rotten hand in the first chapters of our lives. Perhaps it's something common to all of us, but whatever it is, we just can't beat it, and so we simply watch others from the sidewalk, convinced we're damaged goods and far removed from the hope of ever feeling the wind in our hair again.

Are we hiding there, on the sidewalk, because we fear that the falling down is all we’ll ever know? Or, do we rationalize, for really, this ride -- this following after is just too big and awkward for us? Somehow we know the concept is solid, but it's quite different from our previously held view -- you know, that church, the one of a lesser sort that we've thrown away, the very one that slowly but surely became distant and unappealing.

Maybe, just maybe, our view of church is that we should sit and wait and hope that some bride will come, prim and proper and pure and she'll pat us on the head and tell us that everything will turn out fine in the end.

Could it be that we waste so much time waiting and wallowing in our problems and blaming the old kind of church for not meeting our needs, that we forget we're the church, a new kind in fact that springs forward into action, defiantly perfecting our practice despite our brokenness and the knots on our foreheads.

Perhaps we should ask not what our church can do for us, but instead, declare what we can and will do as a church.

You see, I'm more and more convinced that this is the way we’ll truly know what it means to be held. We've got to repeatedly get on and ride and fall off, sometimes so hard and fast that we can’t even put our hands; so often, in fact, that like Tate, instead of giving up, we practice it courageously until we can ride with no hands, enjoying a freedom unlike we've ever known. Yes, of course, there will be times where we’ll be tangled up in it and perhaps bloodied and bruised, but there is One who will pick us up and out of it and He won’t let go while we cry it out. Plain and simple.

I Cor. 15: 58 With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don't hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort. (The Message)

It really is in the Bible, just like that, with the second part quite conclusively containing an action verb. Incarnation is rarely for the complacent and the stationary, so we ride. We throw ourselves into the work as followers of One who is riding right now, grittily and brazenly in our midst, showing a crazy love for all who are out there -- those who are untamed, unseen, unsafe and unloved, and broken just like us. He keeps moving and he invites us to come for he wants us to live life in a large, unfettered way, with vivid imaginations.

So if it helps you to see it, then imagine it so.

Visualize this redemption that we aspire to, the getting back up and accept it as the gift it really is -- a gift oh so worthy of any top ten list, for it brings with it the outrageous and incomprehensible bonus of being able to ride through life on the edge -- to love and to sacrifice for no other reason than because it’s right and received by the unlovely, the unsuspecting, the unwelcome and the underdog.

You’ll have to hang on and embrace sharp turns, and trust the quality of it and then you'll feel the wind on your face. The mere acceleration of it all will no doubt expose wounds, fresh or otherwise, but we must not wait on the sidewalk, for this, my friends, is a new life with a new purpose -- a new kind of church and it’s out there waiting for us to embody it as only we can.

Make no mistake, though -- it’s really not safe. But, remember, even with the danger, the ride must outweigh our fear of it.